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POEMS 


ALBERT     LAIGHTON. 


1    %  't, 


'  j  r     t 

. 


BOSTON: 

BROWN,   TAGGARD  &  CHASE. 

PORTSMOUTH:  JOSEPH  HILLER  FOSTER. 

1859. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

ALBERT  LAIGHTOIT, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  New  Hampshire. 


« 

JULS  ' 


KI.KCTUOTYI'ED   AT  THE 
BOSTON    STEREOTYPE    FOUNDRV. 


PIMNTKIi    I'.Y 
GEO.     C.     HAND     &     A  V  E  H  V . 


equation. 


TO 


ANDREW  P.  PEABODY,  D.D. 

These  few  and  simple  flowers,  that,  hidden,  grew 

Around  my  heart,  I  bind  and  offer  you. 

You  can  but  take  them,  they  may  soon  decay. 

Then  idly  you  may  fling  them  all  away  ; 

Or,  haply,  should  they  joy  and  fragrance  give, 

Or  leave  some  gentle  memory  that  will  live 

When  I'm  forgot,  or  far  away,  or  dead,' 

Then  not  in  vain  are  their  faint  odors  shed. 

PORTSMOUTH,  N.  H.,  1859. 


(3) 

Q 

_&. 


I 


i 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

BEAUTY, 

THE  BIRTH  OF  LIGHT, 29 

THE  MISSING  SHIPS, 34 

AT  NIGHT, 39 

FOUND  DEAD, 41 

AUTUMN, 44 

NEW  ENGLAND, 45 

IN  THE  WOODS, 46 

SONGS  AT  MIDNIGHT, 48 

FLOWERS, 52 

THE  TRESS  OP  HAIR, 53 

To  MY  SOUL, 56 

OAK  AND  VINE,         ........  58 

THE  CHIMES, 61 

DEDICATION  ODE, 62 

THE  HOUSEHOLD  PET, 64 

THE  BREATH  or  SPRING, 66 

IN  THE  STARLIGHT, 68 


(5) 


6  CONTENTS. 


THE  SUMMER  SHOWER,     .                70 

MY  NATIVE  RIVER,  ........  73 

THE  MIDNIGHT  VOICE,    .......  75 

- '  i-  A  i  j       *              •              •              •              •              •              *              •              •              •              •  {  ( 

J  Olij            •••••»••*«•  /t7 

IN  MEMORIAM, 82 

THE  NECROPOLIS,      ...                       ...  85 

FLORA  BELL, ...  87 

EBB  AND  FLOW, 89 

MAY-FLOWERS, 91 

THE  VEILED  GRIEF, 93 

THE  PAUPER'S  PRAYER,  .                               ...  95 

THE  DEAD, 97 

AN  INVOCATION, 99 

THE  LOVE  or  GOD, 101 

A  MEMORIAL, 104 

THE  PHANTOM, •  106 

AN  AUTUMN  THOUGHT, 107 

THE  SUNBEAM, 109 

To  A  BIGOT, Ill 

HYMN,         .               113 

GONE, 115 

THE  Two  WORLDS,  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .116 

TEARS, 117 

DEDICATION  HYMN, 119 


CONTENTS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  RUTH  BLAY, 121 

SONG  OF  THE  SKATERS,    .......  127 

SONNETS. 

OCTOBER, 129 

NIGHT, 131 

DEATH  OF  A  CHILD, 132 

To  J.  G.  W., 134 


BEAUTY.* 


I  SING  of  Beauty  !  not  of  that  which  lies 
Before  me  now,  that  gleams  in  woman's  eyes 
And    blushes   on  her   cheek,  —  that  were   a 

theme 

To  fill  the  measure  of  a  poet's  dream ! 
Not  of  the  matchless  tints  that  painters  give 
The  pictures  of  old  masters,  that  yet  live. 
Kept  sacred  from   the  wrecks   and  spoils  of 

Time  ; 
Claude's    perfect    sunsets,   Rafaelle's    shapes 

sublime, 

Correggio's  landscapes,  and  madonnas  fair, 
With  soul-entrancing  eyes  and  shining  hair  ; 

*  Extracts  from  a  poem  delivered  before  the  United  Lit- 
erary Societies  at  Bowdoin  College,  August  3,  1858. 


,  (  I  I 

,  ,  I  c  I  I. 

r       c  r  f  i    , 

•       I      ,  •  c  ,       ..            ,       ,         • 


i     I 


10  BEAUTY. 


Not  of  the  cold,  calm  loveliness  that  lies 
In  marble  forms,  that  stand  before  our  eyes 
The  white  ideals  of  the  sculptor's  brain  ; 
Not  of  the  triumphs  won  in  Art's  domain, 
But  of  that  beauty  stamped  with  Heaven's 

own  seal, 

That  angels  blessed,  and  day  and   night  re- 
veal, 

That  like  a  living  presence  fills  the  skies, 
And  everywhere  around  our  pathway  lies. 
When  into  darkness  God  stretched  forth  his 

hand, 

And  out  of  chaos,  at  his  high  command, 
This  lower  world  in  perfect  order  stood, 
Arrayed  in  robes  of  light,  and  "  all  was  good," 
With  shouts  of  joy  the  heavenly  arches  rang, 
And  all  the  morning  stars  together  sang. 
Shall  man  not  join  the  strain,  immortal  man, 
For  whom  He  formed  this  fair  and  wondrous 
plan  ? 


BEAUTY. 


11 


Shall  Nature  sing  and  he  alone  be  mute, 
And  show  no  nobler  passion  than  the  brute  ? 


How  many  varied  scenes  this  world  displays 
To  fill  the  heart  with  joy,  the  lips  with  praise  ! 
Go  where  we  may  and  Beauty  follows  too, 
With  radiant  smiles,  and  shapes  forever  new. 
She  haunts  the  spring  beneath  a  fairy's  guise," 
With  unbound  golden  hair  and  azure  eyes  ; 
A  wreath  of  violets  in  each  dainty  hand, 
And  round  her  sunny  brow  an  emerald  band ; 
While  all  day  long  she  strays  o'er  hill  and  glen, 
Through  leafy  bowers,  amid  the  homes  of  men  ; 
And  when  night  falls,  from  out  the  echoing  dells, 
The  lilies  ring  for  her  their  crystal  bells, 
And  in  the  forest's  depths  she  dreams  till  morn, 
Waked  by  the  music  of  the  wild-bee's  horn. 

She  reigns  a  queen  in  Summer  ;  on  a  throne 
Of  amethyst,  with  full-blown  roses  strown 


12  BEAUTY. 


About  her  feet,  she  sits  in  regal  state  ; 
Millions  of  tiny  beings  on  her  wait, 
With  shining  wings,  and  ever  to  her  praise 
With  happy  hearts  sing  their  melodious  lays.  • 

She  comes  to  Autumn,  an  enchantress  rare, 
With  trailing  robes  of  gold  ;  and  as  in  air 
She  waves   her   crimson   wand,   the    ripened 

sheaves 

Gather  with  rustling  banners  ;  on  the  leaves 
A  rain  of  glory  falls  ;  and  in  the  skies 
Cloud  pictures  rise  at  sunset,  tinged  with  dyes 
That  Heaven  alone  displays  to  mortal  eyes : 
Calm  lakes   of  amber   gemmed   with   purple 

isles ; 
Gold-crested  mountains,  through  whose  long 

denies 

We  seem  to  see  the  angels  come  and  go 
With  harps  of  light,  and  white  wings  waving 

slow. 


BEAUTY.  13 


She  roams  an  artist  o'er  the  winter  world, 
Whose  pencil  fair,  with  frozen  dews  impearled, 
Paints  fairy  pictures  on  the  window  panes  ; 
Of    time-worn   castles,  groves,   and   towering 

fanes ; 

Of  grottoes  overarched  by  blossoming  trees, 
And  stately  ships  becalmed  in  silver  seas ; 
Of  chasms  deep,  by  cobweb  bridges  spanned. 
That  lead  to   mountains   bright  with    pearly 

sand, 
Whose  crystal  peaks,  touched  by  the  morning 

sun, 
In  silence  fall,  and  vanish  one  by  one. 


Climb  earth's  most  holy  fanes,  the  mountain 

peaks, 

And  there  her  siren  voice  sublimely  speaks  ; 
Stand  on  some  rocky  strand  that  ocean  laves, 
And  watch  the  long  procession  of  the  waves, 


14  BEAUTY. 


As  one  by  one  along  their  sapphire  way, 
With  measured  step  they  come  with  wreaths 

of  spray ; 

Or  mark  the  Storm-king  as  with  deafening  roar 
He  hunts  the  billows  thundering  to  the  shore  ! 
Or  go  in  fancy  to  the  mystic  deeps 
That  plummet  never  reached,  where  Silence 

keeps 

Eternal  watch  ;  roam  through  the  fairy  bowers 
Festooned    with     mosses,  —  those     perennial 

flowers 

That  blossom  in  the  peaceful  gardens  there, 
And  Naiads  twine  amid  their  flowing  hair,  — 
•  Or  stoop  and  take  the  wreathed  shell  that  lies 
Close  at  thy  feet ;  behold  its  splendid  dyes, 
That  Heaven's  own  bow  of  light  almost  eclipse ; 
List  to  the  whisperings  of  its  parted  lips, 
As  if  some  happy  spirit  of  the  sea 
Filled  all  its  pearly  halls  with  melody  — 
And  tell  me,  did  not  Beauty  walk  with  thee  ? 


BEAUTY.  15 


Let  Dryads  lead  tliee  through  the  shrouded 

wood, 

Beside  their  sylvan  haunts,  where  Solitude 
Sits  crowned  with  wild-flowers  ;  tread  the  long, 

hushed  aisles. 

Across  whose  emerald  floors  the  sunlight  smiles 
Like  God's  own  blessing ;    and  if  there   thy 

breast, 
That   vainly   sighed    for    some   sweet   dream 

of  rest, 

Forgets  its  care,  and  shadows  leave  thy  brain, 
Know  that  the  hand  of  Beauty  soothed  thy 

pain. 

Leave  the  vast  city  with  its  noisy  crowds, 
And  watch  the  quiet  glory  of  the  clouds  ; 
Golden  at  dawn,  pallid  as  ghosts  at  noon, 
Gorgeous  at  evening,  drifting  by  the  moon 
Like  icebergs  in  a  sea  of  misty  light, 
Silent  and  calm,  and  piloted  by  Night. 


16  BEAUTY. 


Go  forth  when  Morning  with  its  key  of  light 
Unlocks  the  dusky  portals  of  the  night, 
And  watch  the  Day-king,  throned  in  majesty, 
Trace  out  a  shining  pathway  o'er  the  sea, 
While  startled  shadows  from  the  mountains  flee, 
And  radiant  floods  pour  down  upon  the  plain, 
And   Earth   looks   up  to  bless    his    cheering 


reign. 


Or  lift  to  Heaven,  at  night,  thy  wondering  eyes, 
And  read  the  starry  language  of  the  skies  ; 
See  Cassiopea  in  her  regal  chair, 
The  golden  trail  of  Berenice's  Hair  ; 
The  Northern  Crown,  whose  jewels  far  outshine 
All  earthly  gems,  and  gleam  with  light  divine  ; 
The  Pleiades,  and  Lyra's  shining  strings ; 
The  Silver   Swan,  the   Dove  with   outspread 

wings ; 

The  Twins,  that  tread  their  path  with  one  desire, 
And  great  Orion  with  his  belt  of  fire  ! 


BEAUTY.  17 


Or  turn  from  these  and  watch  the  Northern 

Lights 

With  jewelled  feet  ascend  the  heavenly  heights  ; 
While  with  fantastic  shapes  they  haunt   the 

brain  — 

A  sky  of  amber  streaked  with  silver  rain  ; 
A  blaze  of  glory,  Heaven's  resplendent  fires  ; 
A  temple  gleaming  with  a  thousand  spires  ; 
A  sea  of  light  that  laves  a  shore  of  stars  ; 
The  gates  of  Heaven,  swift-rolling,  fiery  cars  ; 
A  golden  pulse,  quick   beating   through   the 

night ; 

Contending  armies  mailed  in  armor  bright ; 
A  gauzy  curtain  drawn  by  unseen  hands, 
Night's  gorgeous  drapery  looped  with  starry 

bands ; 

Vast,  burning  cities,  that  lie  far  away  ; 
Blushes  on  Nature's  face  —  pale  ghosts  of  day ; 
A  boundless  prairie  swept  by  phantom  fire  ; 
The  vibrant  strings  of  some  gigantic  lyre  ; 


18  BEAUTY. 


Emblazoned  chariots  ever  skyward  driven  ; 
God's  finger  writing  in  the  book  of  heaven  ; 
The  flaming  banner  of  the  North  unfurled, 
The  mystery  that  dares  a  boasting  world  ! 


*  * 


Far  from  the  city's  din  a  spot  I  knew, 
Where  in  its  pride  a  stately  elm  tree  grew ; 
I  loved  it  well,  and  oft,  when  far  away, 
Weary  and  restless  with  the  toils  of  day, 
I  thought  of  it ;  I  saw  the  children  play 
Beneath  its  shade  ;  I  heard  their  shouts  of  joy, 
And  wished  —  vain  wish  !  — I  was  again  a  boy. 
It  whispered  to  me  of  the  woods  and  streams  ; 
It  rustled  through  the  quiet  of  my  dreams, 
Making  the  night  Arcadia  ;  ever  fair 
(Standing  with  giant  arms  outstretched  in  air) 
It   seemed   to   me ;    whether   I  watched    the 

Spring 
Touch  it  with  light  and  bloom,  or  Summer  fling 


BEAUTY.  19 


Her  garlands  dark  and  dewy  o'er  its  form, 
That  nobly  braved  the  fury  of  the  storm, 
Or  Autumn  tinge  its, leaves  with  amber  dye, 
Or  Winter  leave  its  branches  bare  and  high, 
Pencilled  like  veins  against  the  cold,  gray  sky, 
Or  wreathed  with  snow,  or  hung  with  icy  gems, 
Kissed  by  the  sun,  and  fit  for  diadems. 


(/0,  when  I  think  how  many  close  their  eyes 
To  all  the  beauty  that  around  them  lies, 
Dazzled  by  gold,  misled  by  fashion's  glare  ; 
When  I  behold  the  pallid  brows  of  care 
That  ache  in  factory  rooms   from   dawn  till 

night, 

Shut  out  from  every  pleasant  sound  and  sight ; 
And  when  I  read  with  shame  of  women  fair, 
In  crowded  cities,  driven  to  despair, 
Who  labor  night  and  day,  half  paid,  half  fed, 
While  little  children  cry  to  them  for  bread,- 


20  BEAUTY. 


I  do  not  wonder  that  the  doors  of  sin 
Stand  open  wide,  and  thousands  enter  in ! 

«• 

0  Christian  men  !  would  ye  do  more  to  see 
Christ's  doctrine  lived  in  all  its  purity, 
Heed  Beauty's  holy  voices  ;  let  the  air 
Fan   fevered  cheeks   and  calm   the   pulse   of 

care ; 

Give  men  more  time  to  breathe  and  ponder  o'er 
Great  Nature's  works  ;  pay  to  the  toiling  poor 
Their  honest  claims,  and  hush  their  pitying 

cries, 

And  let  earth's  glory  cheer  their  weary  eyes. 
Preach  from  your  pulpits  of  the  love  of  God, 
That  speaks  to  us  forever  from  the  sod  ; 
Plant  in  your  prison  yards  the  sinless  flowers, 
There  let  the  captive  pass  his  weary  hours  ; 
They  may  bring  manhood  back,  and  fill  his 

heart 
With  holy  thoughts  that  never  will  depart ; 


BEAUTY.  21 


Sooner  than  dungeon  bolt  or  cankering  chain 
They'll  turn  his  feet  to  virtue's  path  again. 

A  sceptic  once,  for  treason  doomed  to  dwell 

Within  the  precincts  of  a  gloomy  cell, 

Wrote  on  his  dungeon   wall  these  words   of 

scorn  : 
"  All  things  in  nature  of  blind  Chance  were 

born." 

The  changing  seasons  as  they  come  and  go 
With  varied  pomp  ;   the  ocean's  ebb  and  flow  ; 

* 

The  star-fires  burning  on  the  steeps  of  night, 
Unquenched  by   time  ;    the  floods  of  golden 

light 

That  flow  in  silence  from  the  fount  of  day, 
Unfettered  as  the  ages  roll  away, 
Baptizing  earth  and  heaven,  —  in  these  he  saw 
No  ruling  hand,  no  high  and  perfect  law. 
But  in  tlie  courtyard  as  he  walked  one  day, 
To  while  the  long  and  tedious  hours  away, 


22  BEAUTY. 


A  little  plant  before  his  careless  sight, 
Lifting  its  tendrils  to  the  air  and  light, 
Spoke  to  the  captive's  soul ;  its  fragile  form 
He  sheltered  from  the  rude  wind  and  the  storm ; 
And  as  beneath  the  gentle  rain  and  dew, 
In  strength,  and  grace,  and  symmetry  it  grew, 
Each  leaf  he  counted  on  the  mystic  tree, 
Till  it  became  to  him  Hope's  rosary. 
And  while  he  watched  the  swelling  buds  unfold 
Their  fragrant  leaves  of  purple  ringed  with  gold, 
Within  his  heart,  controlled  by  nobler  powers, 
The  buds  of  faith  bloomed  into  perfect  flowers  ; 
Till  with  new  light,  Creation  he  could  see, 
A  faultless  form,  whose  soul  was  Deity  ; 
And  Beauty's  image,  that  once  seemed  to  him 
A  far-off  shadow,  cold,  unreal,  dim, 
Rose  fair  and  luminous  before  his  eyes, 
As  if  an  angel  came  from  paradise. 
He  pressed  its  lips,  he  touched  its  peerless  form, 
And  like  Pygmalion's  statue,  it  was  warm. 


BEAUTY.  23 


Ah,  often  thus  God  speaks  to  erring  hearts  ; 
When  passion  sways  and  faith  almost  departs, 
He    wins    them    back    by    some    mysterious 

power ; 

Sometimes  it  may  be  through  a  simple  flower 
That  blooms  beside  their  path  —  sometimes  a 

star 

May  light  their  darkened  way,  and  from  afar 
Bring  revelations  of  that  sleepless  love 
That  falls  in  constant  blessing  from  above. 


*  *  * 


While  Beauty  comes  to  every  human  heart, 
And  lingers  there,  unwilling  to  depart, 
Too  many  own  her  not,  nor  heed  her  claim, 
But  blindly  follow  some  ignoble  aim. 
Only  the  noblest  and  the  pure  of  earth 
Receive  her  as  a  child  of  heavenly  birth, 
An  ano;el  sent  from  some  diviner  sphere, 
To  walk  before  and  smooth  our  pathway  here. 


24  BEAUTY. 


f 

Think  of  that  fearless  soul,  immortal  Kane, 
The  new  Columbus  of  an  arctic  main  ! 
How  in  that  realm  of  everlasting  snow, 
Amid  the  dangers  of  the  treacherous  floe, 
While  Hunger's  ghastly  face  through  that  long 

night 
Stared  with  its  haggard  eyes,  there  blessed  his 

sight 

A  vision  of  the  stars,  that  filled  his  breast 
With  holy  fear  and  dreams  of  endless  rest. 
Think  how  he  watched  the  wild  flower  lift  its 

head 

In  meek  surprise  from  out  its  frozen  bed, 
And  felt  that  there,  amid  eternal  ice, 
God  told  his  presence  by  that  fair  device. 
Two  guests  from  heaven  sustained  and  cheered 

him  there, 

The  angel  Beauty,  and  her  sister,  Prayer. 
0,  hero  spirit !  tbou  didst  seek  no  fame, 
Yet  nations  bow  before  thy  sainted  name  ; 


BEAUTY.  25 


Thy  mission  here  was  filled,  thy  toils  are  o'er  ; 
No  sunless  winter  now,  no  barren  shore, 
But  light,  and  love,  and  beauty  evermore  ; 
For  thou  hast  found  at  last  that  "  open  sea," 
The  soundless  waters  of  eternity. 


As  without  food  the  body  must  decay, 

So  with  the  mind  —  that,  too,  must  pine  away, 

Deprived  of  sustenance  it  ever  craves  ; 

What  are  men  more  than  brutes  or  cringing 

slaves, 

If  sense  and  appetite  alone  control 
Their  being  here  ?     Starvation  of  the  soul, 
In  Heaven's  impartial  sight,  is  worse  by  far 
Than  nature's  yearning  cries  of  hunger  are  ; 
For  though  death  claims  at  last  our  mortal  lives, 
We  do  not  die  —  the  spirit  still  survives, 
Dwells  evermore  in  some  diviner  sphere, 
More  radiant  than  that  which  holds  us  here  ; 


26  BEAUTY. 


Whose  very  air,  and  light,  and  life  must  be 
Composed  of  beauty,  love,  and  purity. 


*  *  * 


Life  may  be  sanctified  by  care  and  pain ; 
An  earthly  loss  may  be  a  heavenly  gain  ; 
And  should  the  clouds  of  sorrow  o'er  us 

meet, 

And  all  seem  dark  before  our  faltering  feet, 
The  angel  Beauty  walks  her  radiant  way  : 
0,  follow  her  !     She  never  leads  astray  ; 
For  where  on  earth  her  fairy  feet  have  trod, 
We  trace  a  starry  pathway  up  to  God. 
How  many  kingly  spirits  hath  she  led  ! 
How  hath  she  loved  the  un forgotten  dead  ! 
She  dwelt  with  Shakspeare,  and  his  dome-like 

brain 

• 

Filled  all  the  world  with  one  melodious  strain ; 
She  stood  unveiled  before  great  Milton's  sight, 
And  thrilled  his  soul  with  visions  of  delight ; 


BEAUTY.  27 


And  when  God's  finger  touched  his  holy  eyes, 
She  turned  for  him  the  key  of  paradise ; 
She  pressed  her  lips  on  Byron's  haughty  brow, 
And   swept   his   harp   with    songs   that   echo 

now ; 

She  followed  Dante's  thorny  path  to  fame, 
And  bound  his  gloomy  brow  with  wreaths  of 

flame ; 
She  sang  to  Wordsworth,  crowned  with  wayside 

flowers, 

And  Avoke  within  his  heart  immortal  powers ; 
She  came  to  Shelley  on  the  skylark's  wing, 
And  in  the  crown  of  Burns,  the  peasant  king, 
She  twined  a  mountain  daisy,  wet  with  dew, 
And  he  was  numbered  with  the  deathless  few. 
She   loved   the   starved  boy,  Chatterton,  and 

when 

• 

He  turned  forever  from  the  scorn  of  men, 

She  went  in  mercy  to  his  lonely  bed  ; 

She  smoothed  the  pillow  for  his  weary  head, 


28  BEAUTY. 


And  arched  a  bow  of  light  o'er  death's  eclipse  ; 

She  put  her  ncctared  chalice  to  his  lips, 

And  he  drank  letheon  draughts,  and  closed  his 

eyes, 
And  passed  with  her  in  silence  to  the  skies. 

And  if  with  prayer  and  praise  thy  heart  is  filled, 
Its  fever  cooled,  its  stormy  passions  stilled, 
If  thou  dost  catch  faint  glimpses  of  that  shore 
Where  sorrow  dies,  and  parting  is  no  more, 
And  thou  canst  almost  solve  death's  mystery, 
0,  then,  God's  handmaid,  Beauty,  dwells  with 
thee  ! 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LIGHT. 

MY  form  was  hid  in  darkness  ;  when  the  earth 
Was  void  and  formless,  and  the  shoreless  deep 
Rolled  its  black  waters,  snllen  and  alone, 
Ere  man  was  formed,  or  any  living  thing, 
"  God  said,  Let  there  be  light,"  and  at  his  word 
The  pall  of  gloom  uplifted,  and  I  flashed 
To  life,  baptizing  with  my  radiant  smile 
A  new-born  world. 


The  Almighty  viewed  me  with  benignant  eye, 
And  I  stood  forth,  the  glad,  immortal  Day  ! 
Above  me  then  heaven's  azure  dome  was  arched ; 
The  waters  were  divided,  and  the  world 
Was  flushed  with  joy  ;  the  emerald  grass  crept 


oer 


(29) 


30  THE    BIRTH     OF     LIGHT. 

The  barren  hills,  and  caught  my  happy  smile ; 
The  valleys  bloomed  with  flowers  ;  the  ocean 

heaved 

Its  breast  exultingly,  and  sang  aloud 
Melodious  anthems  to  the  listening  shore, 
And  at  God's  high  command,  the  pulse  of  life 
Beat  in  its  hidden  and  unsounded  depths. 
Then  living  creatures    swarmed   the   fruitful 

land ; 

All  welcomed  me  and  blessed  me  for  my  birth  ; 
And  last  of  all,  (the  best  and  crowning  act,) 
From  out  the  dust  of  earth  He  fashioned  Man, 
And  in  his  nostrils  breathed  the  breath  of  life, 
And  he  became  a  living  soul,  and  bore 
His  deathless  stamp. 

**• 

My  great  heart  is  the  Sun  ! 
My  mother  is  the  Night,  the  holy  Night ; 
And  God  hath  made  her  beautiful,  and  set 
Upon  her  dusky  brow  a  glittering  crown 


THE    BIRTH     OF    LIGHT.  31 

Of  stars.     Though  at  my  birth  ho  parted  us, 
'Twas  for  a  few  short  hours  ;  for  when  I  see 
The  first  gem  burn  upon  her  coronet, 
I  haste  to  meet  her,  as  with  noiseless  step, 
She  comes  to  wander  o'er  a  waiting  world  ; 
And    when   we   meet,   she    folds   me   to   her 

heart, 
And   sings   to   me  such    sweet   and  soothing 

strains, 

I  fall  asleep  upon  her  dewy  breast, 
Nor  wake  again  till  morn. 

The  muffled  tread 

Of  centuries  in  their  solemn  march,  awakes 
In  me  no  saddening  thoughts  of  age  or  death ; 
No  shadow  dims  the  lustre  of  my  eye  ; 
Though  I  have  seen  proud  empires  rise  and 

fall; 

Though  cities,  great  in  their  magnificence, 
Have  sunk  in  earth  and  vanished  from  my  gaze, 


32  THE    BIRTH     OF    LIGHT. 

And  nought  but  crumbling  columns  mark  their 

graves  ; 
Though   Time's  worn  trophies  thick   around 

me  lie, 

Its  blight  falls  not  on  me  ;  I  ever  wear 
The  same  unchanging  flush  of  morning  bloom. 

I  am  great  Nature's  limner,  and  I  dip 
My  pencil  in  the  liquid  blue  of  heaven, 
And  tinge  the  violet's  leaf;  with  gorgeous  tints 
I  paint  the  Summer  rainbows  on  the  skies ; 
And  though  their  fairy  colors  seem  to  fade, 
Their  glories  are  not  lost ;  for  when,  with  pride, 
The  golden-sandalled  Autumn  walks  the  earth, 
She  showers  their  splendors  on  the  forest  trees. 

I  am  impartial  as  the  air  or  dew  ; 
My  blessing  falls  on  all ;  the  rich  man's  gold 
Buys  not  my  favoring  smile  ;  I  have  no  frown 
For  poverty  ;  no  kindlier  falls  my  glance 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LIGHT. 


33 


On  palace  walls  than  on  the  beggar's  hut. 

I  stretch  niy  hand  through  gloomy  dungeon 

bars, 

And  beckon  the  lone  captive  from  his  cell ; 
I  touch  his  darkened  soul,  and  sometimes  bring 
Tears  to  his  eyes,  repentance  to  his  heart. 
I  tread  where  mortal  footstep  never  dares  ; 
I  kiss  the  mountain  tops,  whose  hoary  heads 
Forever  wear  a  veil  of  clouds  ;  I  creep 
With  shining  feet  down  deep  ravines,  and  chase 
The  brooding  shadows  into  viewless  air. 
But  ah !  the  grave  —  my  glances  reach  not 

there ; 

Though  with  my  sunbeam  fingers  I  may  strew 
Its  sod  above  with  flowers,  I  shed  no  bloom 
Within  ;  God's  eye  alone  can  pierce  its  gloom, 
And  thou,  0  man  !  through  him  alone  canst 

read 
Its  silent  mysteries. 


THE    MISSING    SHIPS. 

0,  THOU  ever  restless  sea, 

"  God's  half-uttered  mystery," 
Where  are  all  the  ships  that  sailed  so  gallantly 
away  ? 

Tell  us,  will  they  never  more 

Furl  their  wings  and  come  to  shore  ? 
Eyes  still  watch  and  fond  hearts  wait ; 

precious  freight  had  they. 

Precious  freight !  ay,  wealth  untold, 
More  than  merchandise  or  gold, 
Did  the  stately  vessels  bear  o'er  the  heaving 

main  ; 

Human  souls  are  dearer  far 
Tli an  all  earthly  treasures  are, 
And  for  them  we  weep  and  pray ;  must  it  be 
in  vain  ? 


(34) 


THE    MISSING    SHIPS.  35 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Did  they,  with  a  wild  affright, 
Wake  to  hear  the  cry  of  FIRE  !  echo  to  the 

stars  ? 

While  the  cruel,  snake-like  flame, 
Creeping,  coiling,  hissing  came 
O'er  the  deck,  and  up  the  mast,  and  out  along 
the  spars ! 

As  the  doomed  ship  swayed  and  tossed 
Like  a  mighty  holocaust, 
Did  they  with  despairing  cries  leap  into  the 

waves  ? 

Or  with  folded  hands,  and  eyes 
Lifted  to  the  peaceful  skies, 
Calmly  go  with  prayerful  hearts  to  their  name- 
less graves  ? 

Did  the  black  wings  of  the  blast 
Poise  and  hover  o'er  the  mast, 


36  THE    MISSING    SHIPS. 

Till   at    last    in   wrath   they   swept  o'er  the 

crowded  deck  ? 
Leaving  not  a  soul  to  tell 
How  the  long  and  awful  swell 
Of  the  ocean's  troubled  breast  bore  a  dismal 
wreck ;  — 

How  amid  the  thunder's  crash, 
And  the  lightning's  lurid  flash, 
(Autograph  the  Storm-king  writes  on  his  scroll 

of  clouds,) 

High  above  the  deafening  strife 
Piteous  cries  were  heard  for  life, 

i 

Fear-struck  human  beings  seen  clinging  to  the 
shrouds ! 

Or  with  shattered  hulk  and  sail, 
Riding  out  the  stormy  gale, 
Did  the  brave  ship  slowly  sink  deeper  day  and 
night  ? 


THE    MISSING    SHIPS.  37 

Drifting,  drifting  wearily 
O'er  the  wide  and  trackless  sea, 
Loved  ones  starving,  dying  there  with  no  sail 
in  sight. 

Or  when  winds  and  waves  were  hushed, 
While  each  cheek  with  joy  was  flushed, 

As  they  glided  gently  on,  hope  in  every  breast, 
With  a  sudden  leap  and  shock, 
Did  they  strike  some  hidden  rock, 

And  go  down,  forever  down  to  their  dreamless 
rest? 

Did  the  strange  and  spectral  fleet 

Of  the  icebergs  round  them  meet, 
Pressing  closer  till  they  sank  crashing  to  the 
deep  ? 

Do  these  crystal  mountains  loom, 

Monuments  of  that  vast  tomb, 
In  the  ocean's  quiet  depths  where  so  many  sleep  ? 


38  THE    MISSING    SHIPS. 

0,  thou  ever-surging  sea, 
Vainly  do  we  question  thee  ; 
Thy  blue  waves  no  answer  bring  as  they  kiss 

the  strand  ; 

But  we  know  each  coral  grave, 
Far  beneath  the  rolling  wave, 
Shall  at  last  give  up  its  dead,  touched  by  God's 
right  hand. 


AT    NIGHT. 

COME  forth,  beloved,  to  the  night ! 

What  though  no  stars  are  in  the  skies ; 
Enough  for  me  the  loving  light 

That  lives  within  your  gentle  eyes. 

We'll  sit  together  in  the  dark, 

Beside  the  meadows  cool  and  damp, 

And  watch  the  fireflies  by  the  spark 
That  glimmers  from  each  tiny  lamp. 

What  happy,  happy  lives  they  pass  ! 

What  hours  amid  the  tasselled  corn ! 
What  pleasures  in  the  dewy  grass, 

That  vanish  with  the  light  of  morn ! 

(39) 


40  AT    NIGHT. 


They  haunt  this  fragrant  summer  air, 
While  every  thing  around  us  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  wings  of  prayer, 
And  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  dreams. 

Come  forth  !  peace  falls  upon  my  breast, 
Like  dews  descending  to  the  sod ; 

As  if  the  arms  of  Nature  pressed 
Me  closer  to  the  heart  of  (rod. 


FOUND    DEAD. 

FOUND  dead !  dead  and  alone ! 

There  was  nobody  near,  nobody  near 
When   the    Outcast   died    on    his    pillow    of 
stone  — 

No  mother,  no  brother,  no  sister  dear, 
Not  a  friendly  voice  to  soothe  or  cheer, 
Not  a  watching  eye  or  a  pitying  tear  — 
0,  the  city  slept  when  he  died  alone 
In  the  roofless  street,  on  a  pillow  of  stone. 

Many  a  weaiy  day  went  by, 

While  wretched   and  worn  he   begged   for 

bread, 
Tired  of  life,  and  longing  to  lie 

Peacefully  down  with  the  silent  dead  ; 

(41) 


42  FOUND     DEAD. 

Hunger  and  cold,  and  scorn  and  pain, 
Had  wasted  his  form  and  seared  his  brain, 
Till  at  last  on  a  bed  of  frozen  ground, 
With  a  pillow  of  stone,  was  the  Outcast  found. 

Found  dead  !  dead  and  alone, 

On  a  pillow  of  stone  in  the  roofless  street ; 
Nobody  heard  his  last  faint  moan, 

Or  knew  when  his  sad  heart  ceased  to  beat ; 
No  mourner  lingered  with  tears  or  sighs, 
But  the  stars  looked  down  with  pitying  eyes, 
And   the   chill  winds  passed  with   a  wailing 

sound 
O'er    the   lonely   spot    where    his    form  was 

found. 

Found  dead  !  yet  not  alone  ; 

There  was  somebody  near  —  somebody  near 
To  claim  the  wanderer  as  his  own, 

And  find  a  home  for  the  homeless  here  ; 


FOUND    DEAD. 


43 


One,  when  every  human  door 
Is  closed  to  his  children,  scorned  and  poor, 
Who  opens  the  heavenly  portal  wide ; 
Ah,  God  was  near  when  the  Outcast  died. 


AUTUMN. 

THE  world  puts  on  its  robes  of  glory  now ; 

The  very  flowers  are  tinged  with  deeper  dyes ; 
The  waves  are  bluer,  and  the  angels  pitch 

Their  shining  tents  along  the  sunset  skies. 

The  distant  hills  are  crowned  with  purple  mist ; 

The  days  are  mellow,  and  the  long,  calm 

nights, 
To  wondering  eyes  like  weird  magicians  show 

The  shifting  splendors  of  the  Northern  Lights. 


* 


The  generous  earth  spreads  out  her  fruitful 

stores, 
And  all  the  fields  are  decked  with  ripened 

sheaves ; 

While  in  the  woods,  at  Autumn's  rustling  step, 
The  maples  blush  through  all  their  trembling 

leaves. 
i 

(44) 


NEW    ENGLAND. 

WHAT  though  they  boast  of  fairer  lands, 
Give  me  New  England's  hallowed  soil, 

The  fearless  hearts,  the  swarthy  hands 
Stamped  with  the  heraldry  of  toil. 

I  love  her  valleys  broad  and  fair, 

The  pathless  wood,  the  gleaming  lake, 

The  bold  and  rocky  bastions,  where 
The  billows  of  the  ocean  break  ; 

The  grandeur  of  each  mountain  peak 
That  rears  to  Heaven  its  granite  form, 

The  craggy  cliffs  where  eagles  shriek, 
Amid  the  thunder  and  the  storm. 

And  dear  to  me  each  noble  deed 

Wrought  by  the  iron  wills  of  yore  — 

The  Pilgrim  hands  that  sowed  the  seed 
Of  Freedom  on  her  sterile  shore. 


(45) 


IN    THE    WOODS. 

I  WALKED  alone  in  depths  of  Autumn  woods ; 

The  ruthless  winds  had  left  the  maple  bare  ; 
The  fern  was  withered,  and  the  sweetbrier's 
breath 

No  longer  gave  its  fragrance  to  the  air. 

The  barberry  strung  its  coral  beads  no  more ; 

The  thistle-down  on  gauzy  wings  had  flown ; 
And  myriad  leaves,  on  which  the  Summer  wrote 

Her  blushing  farewell,  at  my  feet  were 
strown. 

A  loneliness  pervaded  every  spot ; 

A  gloom  of  which  my  musing  soul  partook ; 
All  Nature  mourns,  I  said  ;  November  wild 

Hath  torn  the  fairest  pages  from  her  book. 

(46) 


IN    THE    WOODS.  47 

But  suddenly  a  wild  bird  overhead 

Poured  forth  a  strain  so  strangely  clear  and 

sweet, 
It  seemed  to  bring  me  back  the  skies  of  May, 

And  wake  the  sleeping  violets  at  my  feet. 

Then  long  I  pondered  o'er  the  poet's  words, 
"  The  loss  of  beauty  is  not  always  loss," 

Till  like  the  voice  of  love  they  soothed  my  pain, 
And  gave  me  strength  to  bear  again  my  cross. 

0  murmuring  heart !  thy  pleasures  may  decay, 
Thy  faith  grow  cold,  thy  golden  dreams  take 

wing ; 

Still  in  the  realm  of  faded  youth  and  joy, 
Heaven  kindly  leaves  some  bird  of  hope  to 
sing. 


SONGS    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

IN  the  West  the  distant  lightning 

Fitfully  doth  come  and  go, 
Like  the  radiant  wings  of  fireflies 

Flashing  to  and  fro. 

Every  where  the  mellow  moonlight 

Lieth  mystical  and  fair, 
And  the  cool  winds  of  the  ocean 

Fan  the  heated  air. 

To  our  casement,  from  the  garden, 

• 

Where  the  flowers  with  dew  are  wet, 
Floats  the  breath  that  parts  the  fragrant 
Lips  of  mignonnette. 


(48) 


SONGS    AT    MIDNIGHT.  49 

Nothing  breaks  the  dreamy  stillness. 
On  the  earth,  in  heaven  above, 

Save  the  sound  of  far-off  voices 
Singing  songs  of  love. 

How  my  heart  thrills  as  I  listen ! 

What  dear  visions  fill  my  brain, 
As  the  old  tunes,  half  forgotten, 

Come  to  me  again  ! 

They  are  songs  we  sang  together 
Underneath  the  whispering  trees  ; 

Ah,  our  holy  passion  blossomed 
On  such  nights  as  these. 

They  are  melodies  we  chanted 

Years  ago,  in  midnight  hours, 
When  beloved  voices  mingled 

Trustingly  with  ours. 

*-••'-  *  * 

»,•«  st*  f* 


50  SONGS    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

You  are  sad  and  silent,  Marion  ; 

Tears  are  in  your  tender  eyes  ; 
Are  you  thinking  of  a  maiden 

Now  in  Paradise  ? 

Does  she  stand  once  more  before  you, 
While  her  sweet  voice  haunts  the  air, 

Just  the  same  as  when  she  left  us, 
Fairest  of  the  fair  ? 

Do  not  weep  —  the  loving  Father, 
When  he  took  her  gentle  hand, 

Led  her  to  the  fair,  green  pastures 
Of  the  better  land. 

She  may  be  the  Queen  of  Angels, 

In  the  bright  spheres  where  they  dwell, 

In  her  music  tones  surpasssing 
Sweet-voiced  Israfel. 


J 


SONGS    AT    MIDNIGHT.  51 

Do  not  weep,  but  sit  beside  me ; 

Listen  to  the  soothing  chimes, 
As  they  seem  to  peal  from  turrets 

Of  the  olden  times. 


FLOWERS. 

THEY  are  the  autographs  of  angels,  penned 
In  Nature's  green-leaved  book,  in  blended  tints, 
Borrowed  from  rainbows  and  the  sunset  skies, 
And  written  every  where  —  on  plain  and  hill, 
In  lonely  dells,  'mid  crowded  haunts  of  men  ; 
On  the  broad  prairies,  where  no  eye  save  God's 
May  read  their  silent,  sacred  mysteries. 

Thank  God  for  flowers  !  they  gladden  human 

hearts  ; 

Seraphic  breathings  part  their  fragrant  lips 
With  whisperings  of  Heaven. 


(59) 


THE    TRESS    OF    HAIR. 

A  SINGLE  tress  of  golden  hair ; 
A  sacred  relic  kept  with  care  ; 
A  memory  of  one  so  fair, 

That  angels  left  their  hymning  band, 
And  came  to  earth,  to  take  his  hand 
And  lead  him  to  the  Unseen  Land. 

But  ere  he  trod  the  starry  way 
That  leadeth  to  eternal  day, 
As  calm  and  beautiful  he  ky, 

This  curling  tress  of  golden  hair, 
This  sacred  relic  kept  with  care, 
She  gathered  from  his  forehead  fair. 


(53) 


THE    TRESS     OF    HAIR. 


0,  lingering  o'er  the  treasure  long, 
A  thousand  tender  memories  throng  ; 
She  hears  again  his  cradle  song ! 


And  yesternight  before  she  slept, 
She  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  wept ; 
Warm  tear-drops  down  her  pale  face  crept ; 

While  to  her  aching  heart  she  said, 
"  Why  mournest  thou  that  he  is  dead  ? 
He  sleepeth  in  a  peaceful  bed. 

God  called  him  to  a  sweet  repose, 

And  he  hath  slept  through  winter  snows, 

Till  now  the  dewy  violet  blows 

Above  his  grave  —  soft  mosses  spring, 

And  birds  on  free  and  happy  wing, 

All  day  their  heaven-tuned  praises  sing." 


THE    TRESS    OF    HAIR.  55 

Ah,  yes,  with  joy  the  April  rain 

Thrills  Nature's  breast,  but  mine  with  pain 

Sigheth  —  he  will  not  come  again. 


TO    MY    SOUL. 

GUEST  from  a  holier  world, 
0,  tell  me  where  the  peaceful  valleys  lie  ? 
Dove  in  the  ark  of  life,  when  thou  shalt  fly, 

Where  will  thy  wings  be  furled  ? 

Where  is  thy  native  nest  ? 
Where  the   green   pastures   that   the   blesse'd 

roam  ? 
Impatient  dweller  in  thy  clay-built  home, 

Where  is  thy  heavenly  rest  ? 

On  some  immortal  shore, 
Some  realm  away  from  earth  and  time,  I  know ; 
A  land  of  bloom,  where  living  waters  flow, 


And  grief  comes  nevermore. 


(56) 


TO    MY    SOUL.  57 


Faith  turns  my  eyes  above  ; 
Day  fills  with  floods  of  light  the  boundless  skies; 
Night  watches  calmly  with  her  starry  eyes 

All  tremulous  with  love. 

And  as  entranced  I  gaze, 
Sweet  music  floats  to  me  from  distant  lyres ; 
I  see  a  temple,  round  whose  golden  spires 

Unearthly  glory  plays ! 

Beyond  those  azure  deeps 
I  fix  thy  home  —  a  mansion  kept  for  thee 
Within  the  Father's  house,  whose  noiseless  key 

Kind  Death,  the  warder,  keeps  ! 


OAK    AND    VINE. 

FAR  out  upon  the  lonely  wold 

There  stands  an  oak  tree  sere  and  old  ; 

The  sunshine  and  the  dews  of  spring 
No  verdure  to  its  branches  bring  ; 

Decayed  and  withered,  shrunk  and  bare, 
Like  ghostly  arms  they  stretch  in  air. 

For  many  a  year  its  towering  form 
Withstood  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm  - 


A  leaf-roofed  home  for  summer  birds, 
A  shelter  for  the  lowing  herds. 


Once  when  the  blast  was  wild  and  loud, 
From  out  its  dusky  sheath  of  cloud 

(58) 


OAK    AND    VINE.  59 

The  lightning  flashed  and  pierced  its  heart. 
And  tore  its  sinewy  limbs  apart ; 

Ah,  like  a  crashing  sabre  stroke 
It  sank  into  that  heart  of  oak  ! 

Then  fell  its  foliage  leaf  by  leaf, 

As  joys  fall  at  the  touch  of  grief. 

» 

And  as  around  a  generous  heart 

Cling  summer  friends,  that  will  not  part 

While  wealth,  and  joy,  and  sunshine  last, 
But  soon  forsake  when  some  wild  blast 

Of  sorrow,  in  an  evil  hour, 

Sweeps  o'er  it  with  destroying  power  — 

So  beast  and  bird  upon  the  wold 
Forsake  the  oak  tree  bare  and  old. 


60  OAK    AND    VINE. 

But  from  its  roots  there  springs  a  vine, 
Whose  climbing  tendrils  round  it  twine, 

Unshaken  by  the  tempest's  rage  — 
A  garland  on  the  brow  of  age. 

The  heart  is  like  the  rifted  oak ; 
Though  sorrow  with  a  fearful  stroke 

Its  budding  wealth  of  joy  may  blight, 
It  leaves  it  not  deserted  quite  ; 

Not  wholly  wretched  and  forlorn, 
For,  ever  in  its  depths  is  born 

Some  blessed  hope,  that  like  the  vine 
Around  the  ruin  still  will  twine. 


THE    CHIMES. 

AGES  since,  men  heard  the  ringing 
Of  the  song-bells  gently  swinging 

In  the  starry  domes  of  thought ; 
Long  they  listened  to  the  chimes 
That  the  poet's  golden  rhymes 

Out  of  sweetest  fancies  wrought. 

Still  the  tuneful  bells  are  pealing, 
Waking  every  holy  feeling  ; 

Still  they  vibrate  in  the  past ; 
And  the  poet  of  to-day 
Hears  the  music  far  away, 

Clearer  than  a  clarion's  blast ! 


(61) 


DEDICATION    ODE. 

THERE  is  a  temple  towering  high 

Within  the  boundless  realm  of  Time  • 

A  thought-built  palace  filled  with  truth 
And  mystery  sublime. 

In  splendor  through  its  shining  dome 
The  starry  light  of  genius  falls, 

And  he  who  will  may  enter  in, 
And  king-like  walk  its  halls. 

But  at  its  broad  and  ample  base 
The  eager  throng  must  vainly  wait, 

Till  Knowledge  with  her  magic  key 
Unlocks  the  golden  gate. 


(62) 


DEDICATION    ODE.  63 

In  these  fair  halls  she  sits  enthroned, 
The  magic  key  within  her  hand, 

Uplifted  to  the  temple,  reared 
In  Thought's  enchanted  land. 

0,  ye  who  love  her  radiant  form, 
And  strive  to  gain  that  palace  gate, 

Remember,  'tis  a  noble  thing 
"  To  labor  and  to  wait." 

Let  no  fond  dream  of  wealth  or  ease 

Your  earnest  zeal  ignobly  foil ; 
The  laurel  wreath  of  Fame  would  fade 

Without  the  dew  of  toil. 


THE    HOUSEHOLD    PET. 

A  HAPPY  child,  whose  clear  blue  eyes 
Look  in  our  own  with  winning  power ; 

A  budding  lip  where  laughter  lies, 
Like  sunlight  on  a  flower  ;  — 

A  voice  whose  music  tones  once  heard, 
The  charmed  ear  would  not  forget, 

As  joyous  as  the  song  of  bird  — 
Our  little  household  Pet. 

From  morn  till  night  his  tiny  feet 
Beat  music  on  the  echoing  floor, 

And  when  I  come  he  hastes  to  meet 
And  kiss  me  at  the  door. 


(64) 


THE    HOUSEHOLD    PET.  65 

Around  my  neck  his  fond  arms  twine 
With  loving  welcome,  e'er  the  same, 

And  with  his  fair  cheek  pressed  to  mine, 
He  sweetly  lisps  my  name. 

Without  the  rapture  of  his  kiss, 
The  joy  that  rests  on  lip  and  brow, 

Our  home  would  lose  one  half  the  bliss 
That  dwells  within  it  now. 


THE    BREATH    OF    SPRING. 

THE  breath  of  Spring  will  steal  again 
Bloom-scented  o'er  the  earth, 

And  silently  the  sleeping  flowers 
In  beauty  wake  to  birth. 

Bright  birds  will  flit  and  blossoms  float 

Upon  the  balmy  air, 
And  Nature  with  her  vernal  song 

Pour  gladness  every  where. 

I  think  of  those  who  lie  asleep 

Within  the  silent  tomb  ; 
To  them  the  spring-time  comes  in  vain, 

With  all  its  light  and  bloom. 


(GG) 


THE    BREATH     OF    SPRING.  67 

I  dream  of  her  who  early  sought 

A  fairer  Spring  than  ours, 
Of  her  who  died  when  autumn  winds 

Sighed  o'er  the  fading  flowers. 

She  knew  that  balmier  breezes  played 

In  Paradise  afar, 
And  sweeter  notes  than  those  of  birds 

Were  sung  where  angels  are. 


IN    THE    STARLIGHT. 

YE  fadeless  flowers  that  gem  the  fields  of  Space, 
Unseen  by  mortal  eyes  what  time  the  Day 
Bathes  earth  and  sky  in  floods  of  living  light ; 
Whose  golden  petals  to  the  night  unfold, 
All  tremulous  with  beauty,  as  if  stirred 
By  airs  from   Heaven,  or  fanned   by  seraph 

wings ; 

Ye  glittering  sands  upon  a  tideless  shore ; 
Footprints  by  angels  made  in  sapphire  walks  ; 
Caskets  that  shrine  the  loved  and  lost  of  earth  ; 
Bright  mysteries  that  fill  the  soul  with  thought, 
Men  worshipped  ye  of  old,  and  read  their  lives 
By  your  mild  light,  and  heathen  eyes   have 

gazed 
With  holy  wonder  on  your  loveliness. 

(68) 


IN    THE    STARLIGHT.  69 

Beneath  your  peaceful  splendor  I  will  bow, 
And  ye  shall  be  to  me  the  types  of  God, 
"  The  broad  and  jewelled  floor  of  his  abode," 
My  shining  home  ;  and  when  the  Angel  Death 
Shall  come  to  lead  me  there,  0,  may  it  be 
In  the  hushed  night,  at  such  an  hour  as  this, 
The  heavens  as  cloudless,  and  your  crystal  fires 
As  glorious  as  now,  that  they  may  light 
The  dusky  valley  for  my  fainting  feet. 


THE    SUMMER    SHOWER. 

A  WHITE  haze  glimmered  on  the  hills, 
The  vales  were  parched  and  dry, 

And  glaringly  the  burning  sun 
Coursed  in  the  summer  sky. 

The  cattle,  in  the  distant  woods 
Sought  shelter  from  its  beams, 

Or,  motionless  and  patient  stood, 
Knee-deep,  amid  the  streams. 

The  house-dog  lay  with  panting  breath 
Close  where  the  elm  trees  grew ; 

The  bluebird  and  the  oriole 
To  shady  coverts  flew. 


(70) 


THE     SUMMER     SHOWER.  71 

Day  after  day  the  thirsty  earth 

Looked  up  to  heaven  for  rain  ; 
The  gardens  held  their  flower-cups, 

The  fields  their  lips  of  grain. 

With  doubting  hearts,  men,  murmuring,  said, 

"  Our  toils  have  been  in  vain  ; 
We  sowed  in  spring,  but  shall  not  reap 

When  autumn  comes  again." 

But  while  they  spoke,  within  the  west, 

At  sunset's  glowing  hour, 
God's  voice  proclaimed  in  thunder  tones 

The  coming  of  the  shower  ! 

The  deepening  shadows  slowly  crept 

O'er  mountain  and  o'er  plain, 
Until  in  cool  and  copious  floods 

Came  down  the  blessed  rain. 


72  THE    SUMMER    SHOWER. 

All  nature  smiled  ;  and  when  at  last 
The  cloudy  wings  were  furled, 

The  evening  star  shone  regally 
Above  a  thankful  world. 

0  love  of  Heaven  !     0  fear  of  man  ! 

0  faith  so  cold  and  dim ! 
When  shall  we  own  the  ways  of  God, 

And  learn  to  trust  in  Him  ? 


MY    NATIVE    RIVER. 

LIKE  an  azure  vein  from  the  heart  of  the  main, 

Pulsing  with  joy  forever, 
By  verdurous  Isles,  with  dimpled  smiles, 

Floweth  my  native  river. 

Singing  a  song  as  it  flows  along, 

Hushed  by  the  Ice-king  never  ; 
For  he  strives  in  vain  to  clasp  a  chain 

O'er  thy  fetterless  heart,  brave  river ! 

Singing  to  me  as  full  and  free 

As  it  sang  to  the  dusky  daughters, 

When  the  light  canoe  like  a  sea-bird  flew 
Over  its  peaceful  waters  ; 


(73) 


74  MY    NATIVE    RIVER. 

Or  when  by  the  shore  of  Sagamore 
They  joined  in  their  mystic  dances  ; 

Where  the  lover's  vow  is  whispered  now, 
By  the  light  of  maiden  glances. 

0,  when  the  dart  shall  strike  my  heart, 
Speeding  from  Death's  full  quiver, 

May  I  close  my  eyes  where  smiling  skies 
Bend  o'er  my  native  river. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    VOICE. 

FATHER,  at  this  calm  hour, 
Alone,  in  prayer  I  bend  an  humble  knee  ; 
My  soul  in  silence  wings  its  flight  to  Thee, 

And  owns  Thy  boundless  power. 

A- 

Day's  weary  toil  is  o'er  ; 
No  worldly  strife  my  heart-felt  worship  mars ; 
Beneath  the  mystery  of  the  silent  stars, 

I  tremble  and  adore. 

Not  when  the  frenzied  storm 
Writhes  'mid  the  darkness,  till  in  wild  despair, 
Bursting  its   thunder   chains,  the   lightning's 
glare 

Reveals  its  awful  form  — 

(75) 


76  THE    MIDNIGHT    VOICE. 

I  wait  not  for  that  hour  ; 
In  flower  and  dew,  in  sunshine  calm  and  free, 
I  hear  a  still  small  voice  that  speaks  of  Theo 

With  holier,  deeper  power. 

Above  the  thunder  notes, 
Serene  and  clear,  the  music  of  the  spheres 
Forever  rolls,  though  not  to  mortal  ears 

The  Heavenly  cadence  floats. 


MAY. 

SPRING  at  its  noon  of  beauty !     Blossoms  fill 
The   air   with   fragrance  ;    every   bloom- 
wreathed  bough 

Is  rife  with  music,  and  my  pulses  thrill, 
0  May,  at  thy  warm  kiss  upon  my  brow ! 

0,  it  is  joy  to  -breathe  the  golden  air. 
To  feel  the  zephyrs,  as  they  softly  play, 
Waft  from  the  heart  a  weight  of  care  away  ; 

To  let  the  moments  lead  our  footsteps  where 
TTe  plucked  the  violets  of  our  childhood  time ; 

To  roam  our  native  woodlands  yet  a  child, 

And  know  again  the  joy  and  transport  wild 
That  flushed  us  then.     Sometimes  in  man- 
hood's prime 

Come  back  sweet  memories  with  the  vestal  glow 

They  wore  in  blissful  spring-times  long  ago. 

(77) 


78  MAY. 

And  though  in  dreams  alone  such  memories 

live, 

Should  we  lament  in  tears  the  happy  past, 
Forgetting  hours  like  these  ?  or  basely  give 
Our  hearts'  best  wealth  for  gold  ?     To-day  I 

cast 

My  fetters  off,  once  more  to  wander  free 
Beneath  thy  smiling  heavens,  thou  radiant 

May! 

Yet  while  I  sing  to  thee  my  thankful  lay, 
0,  there  are  lips  that  have  no  song  for  thee, 
And  hearts  that  sorrow  'mid  thy  joy  and 

bloom, 

And  eyes  that  view  thy  glories,  dim  with  tears  ; 
For,  backward   gazing  through  the   mists   of 

years, 

Rise  saddened  memories  from  the  moulder- 
ing tomb, 

And  cast  a  shadow  and  a  blight  o'er  all 
Thy  wide-spread  scene  of  beauty,  like  a  pall. 


JOE. 

ALL  day  long  with  a  vacant  stare, 
Alone  in  the  chilling  Autumn  air? 
With  naked  feet  he  wanders  slow 
Over  the  city  —  the  idiot  Joe  ! 

I  often  marvel  why  he  was  born, 
A  child  of  humanity  thus  forlorn, 
Unloved,  unnoticed  by  all  below  ; 
A  cheerless  thing  is  the  life  of  Joe  ! 

Beauty  can  throw  no  spell  o'er  him ; 
His  inner  vision  is  weak  and  dim ; 
And  Nature  in  all  her  varied  show 
Weareth  no  charm  for  the  eyes  of  Joe. 


(79) 


80  JOE. 


Earth  may  wake  at  the  kiss  of  Spring, 
Flowers  may  blossom  and  birds  may  sing  ; 
With  joy  the  crystal  streams  may  flow  ; 
They  never  make  glad  the  heart  of  Joe. 

His  vague  and  wandering  thoughts  enfold 
No  dreams  of  glory,  no  schemes  for  gold  ; 
He  knows  not  the  blight  of  hopes,  yet  0, 
A  blighted  thing  is  the  life  of  Joe  ! 

Who  would  not  suffer  the  ills  of  life, 
Its  numberless  wrongs,  its  sin  and  strife, 
And  willingly  bear  its  weight  of  woe, 
Rather  than  be  the  idiot  Joe  ? 

I  think  of  him  in  the  silent  night, 
When  every  star  seems  a  beacon  light, 
To  guide  us,  wanderers  here  below, 
To  the  better  land  —  the  home  of  Joe. 


JOE.  81 


For  He  who  hears  when  the  ravens  call, 
And  watches  even  the  sparrow's  fall  — 
He,  in  his  measureless  love,  I  know, 
Will  kindly  care  for  the  soul  of  Joe. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

WHEN  Spring  with  gladness  filled  the  earth. 

To  us  it  brought  no  sound  of  mirth  ; 

We  cared  not  if  the  robin  sang  ; 

We  watched  no  blossom  as  it  sprang ; 

Our  eyes  with  coming  grief  were  wet ; 

Anemone  and  violet 

Put  forth  their  little  lives  of  bloom, 

But  she  was  fading  for  the  tomb  — 

Hopefully  and  trustfully 

Passing  to  Eternity. 

Now  winds  are  wild  and  sere  leaves  fall ; 
A  dying  glory  mantles  all ; 
I  sit  and  watch  the  tears  of  rain 
Steal  slowly  down  the  window-pane. 

~(82) 


IN    MEMORIAM.  83 

The  wailing  of  the  Autumn  blast 
Stirs  many  a  dead  leaf  of  the  Past 
Within  my  soul ;  I  seem  to  hear 
The  wan  lips  of  the  dying  year, 

Mournfully,  0,  mournfully, 

Chant  a  low,  sad  melody. 

Old  voices  mingle  in  the  strain  ; 
Lost  dreams  of  Youth  come  back  again  ; 
Loved  forms  once  more  beside  me  stand  ; 
I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  hand 
Within  mine  own  ;  in  angel  guise 
She  comes  to  me  from  Paradise ; 
She  turns  on  me  her  holy  eyes, 
That  overflow  with  mysteries, 

Lovingly,  so  lovingly, 

Full  of  immortality. 

0,  weeping  rain  !     0,  dying  year  ! 
Ye  bring  her  sainted  presence  near ; 


84  IN    MEMORIAM. 

0,  moaning  wind  !     0,  falling  leaf! 
Ye  shall  not  fill  my  soul  with  grief 
For  her  whose  feet  so  early  trod 
The  starry  steeps  that  lead  to  God ! 
Whose  heart  shall  never  bear  again 
Life's  weight  of  weariness  and  pain. 
Tenderly  and  joyfully 
Thrill  the  chords  of  memory  ! 


THE    NECROPOLIS. 

THOUGH  the  sexton,  grim  and  old, 

Turns  the  mould, 

Damp  and  cold, 
In  the  churchyard,  for  the  bed 
Of  the  still  and  holy  dead  ; 

Though  we  see  the  green  turf  prest 

On  each  breast 

Full  of  rest, 

Full  of  quiet,  sweet  and  deep, 
Yet  not  there  our  loved  ones  sleep. 

• 

0,  the  graves  where  they  are  laid 
Sexton's  spade 
Never  made ! 


(85) 


86  THE    NECROPOLIS. 

Nor  do  sculptured  tablets  tell 
That  within  the  heart  they  dwell. 

Where  the  winter  winds,  we  know, 

Cannot  blow, 

And  the  snow 

Never  hides  the  flowers  that  grow, 
Fadeless,  from  the  dust  below. 


FLORA    BELL. 

HAVE  you  heard  our  song-bird  sing  ? 
To  our  hearts,  as  larks  to  Spring, 
She  brings  music  on  her  wing ; 

In  a  nest  beside  the  swell 
Of  the  blue  and  hymning  sea, 
Beating,  beating  grand  and  free 
Its  eternal  minstrelsy, 

Dwells  and  carols  Flora  Bell. 

Many  an  artless,  heart-born  strain, 
Set  to  music  in  her  brain, 
As  the  rhythm  of  the  main 

In  the  bosom  of  a  shell, 
Chanteth  she,  in  tones  so  clear, 
That  methinks  the  world  should  hear, 
And  its  warblers,  gathering  near, 

Strive  to  mimic  Flora  Bell. 

(87) 


88  FLORA    BELL.    • 

Once  her  young  heart  trilled  a  lay 
Full  and  fresh  with  hope  as  May 
With  its  blossoms  ;  far  away 

Its  glad  echoes  gently  fell 
On  a  breaking  human  heart, 
Bidding  all  its  fears  depart, 
Soothing  all  its  woe  and  smart : 

Blessings  on  thee,  Flora  Bell ! 

Close  beside  the  hymning  sea, 
Chant  thy  sweet  songs  full  and  free 
For  a  wide  Humanity  ; 

And  though  none  their  power  should  tell, 
Yet  we  know  above  this  sphere 
Bends  an  ever-listening  ear  ; 
God  will  bless  thee  —  He  will  hear  ; 

Keep  on  singing,  Flora  Bell ! 


EBB    AND    FLOW. 

I  WANDERED  alone  beside  the  stream ; 

The  tide  was  out  and  the  sands  were  bare ; 
The  tremulous  tone  of  the  sea-bird's  scream 

Like  a  winged  arrow  pierced  the  air. 

I  roamed  till  the  sun  in  the  west  was  low, 
And  the  robes  of  twilight  trailed  in  the  sea  ; 

The  waves  pulsed  in  with  a  rhythmical  flow, 
And  the  nightingale  sang  a  song  to  me. 


All  day  I  roam  by  the  stream  of  Song ; 

The  tide  is  out,  and  my  life  is  bare ; 
While  shadows  of  evil  round  me  throng, 

And  drearily  croak  the  birds  of  Care. 


(89) 


90  EBB    AND     FLOW. 

But  at  night  the  waves  roll  back  again, 
And  flow  in  music  over  my  heart, 

Till  the  dusky  phantoms  of  grief  and  pain 
From  the  charmed  shores  of  my  brain  depart. 


MAY-FLOWERS. 

CHILDREN  of  the  pathless  wood, 
Dwelling  in  deep  solitude, 
Born  of  earth  and  blessed  of  heaven, 
Proofs  of  love  that  God  hath  given  ; 
Pledges  from  His  bounteous  hand, 
Ever  fair  and  sinless  band  — 

When  your  gentle  mother,  Spring, 
Heard  the  happy  robin  sing, 
Then  we  saw  her,  calm  and  slow, 
Lift  the  coverlet  of  snow 
From  your  tiny  forms,  and  press 
Your  pure  lips  with  tenderness. 

And  we  knew  she  lingered  there, 
Whispering  words  of  love  and  prayer ; 

(91) 


92  MAY-FLOWERS. 

For  at  last  each  sleeping  child, 
Looking  upward,  sweetly  smiled, 
With  the  beauty  of  the  skies 
Mirrored  in  its  dewy  eyes  ! 

Low  winds  whispering  through  the  trees ; 

Dreamy  miirmurings  of  bees  ; 

Notes  of  birds,  and  flow  of  rills  ; 

Music  that  the  rain  distils  ; 

Your  sweet  cradle  songs  are  these, 

And  unnumbered  melodies. 

0,  ye  children  of  the  wood, 
Messengers  of  solitude, 
Ye  are  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  the  nurslings  of  the  lea  ! 
For  ye  bring  to  hcaft  and  brain 
Childhood's  rosy  dreams  again. 


THE    VEILED    GRIEF. 

0,  THINK  not  that  my  eyes  are  dry, 
Because  you  mark  no  falling  tears ; 

There  flows  a  river  deep  and  dark, 
Whose  waters  ebb  not  with  the  years. 

And  think  not  that  my  lips  are  mute, 
Because  you  hear  no  spoken  word 

Full  freighted  with  the  tones  of  grief — 
I  hear  a  voice  you  never  heard. 

And  think  not  that  my  heart  is  cold, 
Because  no  passion  fires  my  breast ; 

There  is  a  chamber  in  my  soul 
That  only  owns  an  angel  guest. 


(93) 


94  THE    VEILED     GRIEF. 

My  tears  fall  inward  011  my  heart, 

And,  dew-like,  keep  its  memories  green  ; 

Sad  strains,  unheard  by  other  ears, 
Break  forth  for  me  from  lips  unseen. 


THE    PAUPER'S    PRAYER. 

"  FAIR  lady,  in  thy  silken  robes, 

With  jewels  in  thy  hair, 
0,  leave  a  while  thy  thrilling  lute, 

And  listen  to  my  prayer  ! 

"  Give  but  a  diamond  from  thy  brow, 

A  jewel  from  thy  dress  ; 
I  ask  it  for  a  cheerless  home 

Of  want  and  wretchedness  ; 

"  A  home  where  Hunger  preys  by  day, 

Nor  feeds  itself  at  night, 
But  only  shuts  its  sunken  eye, 

To  ope  with  morning  light." 


(95) 


96 


THE   PAUPER'S  PRAYER. 


She  heard  him  not,  but  closer  bound 
Her  gems  about  her  hair  ; 

No  comfort  for  the  pauper's  home, 
No  answer  to  his  prayer. 

She  cast  him  coldly  from  her  door ; 

No  gem,  no  gold  was  given ; 
That  lady  fair,  so  rich  on  earth, 

But,  O,  so  poor  in  heaven  ! 


THE  DEAD. 

I  CANNOT  tell  you  if  the  dead, 
That  loved  us  fondly  when  on  earth, 
Walk  by  our  side,  sit  at  our  hearth, 

By  ties  of  old  affection  led  ; 

Or,  looking  earnestly  within, 
Know  all  our  joys,  hear  all  our  sighs, 
And  watch  us  with  their  holy  eyes 

Whene'er  we  tread  the  paths  of  sin  ; 

Or  if  with  mystic  lore  and  sign, 
They  speak  to  us,  or  press  our  hand, 
And  strive  to  make  us  understand 

The  nearness  of  their  forms  divine. 


(97) 


98  THE    DEAD. 


But  this  I  know  —  in  many  dreams 
They  come  to  me  from  realms  afar, 
And  leave  the  golden  gates  ajar, 

Through  which  immortal  glory  streams. 


AN    INVOCATION. 

RESTLESS  phantoms  haunt  my  brain ! 
Come  and  ease  my  nameless  pain, 

Sleep  —  sweet  sleep. 
I  would  own  thy  gentle  power ; 
It  is  midnight's  holy  hour  ; 
Wave  thy  charmed  wand  over  me, 
Let  thy  mantle  cover  me, 

Sleep  —  sweet  sleep  ! 

Clasp  me  in  thy  dusky  arms, 
Soothe  me  with  thy  mystic  balms, 

Sleep  —  sweet  sleep. 
Let  me  drink  thy  letheon  wine, 
Press  thy  dewy  lips  to  mine, 


(99) 


100  AN    INVOCATION. 

Fold  rny  hands  and  close  my  eyes, 
Bring  me  dreams  of  Paradise, 
Sleep  —  sweet  sleep. 

Linger  with  me  till  the  dawn, 
Leave  me  not  till  day  is  born, 

Sleep  —  sweet  sleep  ; 
Then  shall  gates  of  rosy  light 
Open  for  thy  silent  flight. 
Ah  !  some  time  thou'lt  come,  I  know, 
To  my  heart,  and  never  go, 

Sleep  —  sweet  sleep  ! 


p          I  } 

. 

I        ,1)11 

.  , 

> 


THE    LOYE    OF    GOD. 

ALL  human  love  is  a  faint  type  of  God's  ; 
An  echoing  note  from  a  harmonious  whole ; 
A  feeble  spark  from  an  undying  flame  ; 
A  single  drop  from  an  unfathomed  sea  : 
But  God's  is  infinite  ;  it  fills  the  earth 
And  heaven,  and  the  broad,  trackless  realms 

of  space. 

Earth's  myriad  voices  hymn  it  ceaselessly ; 
The  mountains  tell  it  to  the  peaceful  vales 
In  tuneful  streams  and  voiceful  waterfalls. 
That  bear  it  on  and  sing  it  to  the  sea, 
Until  its  great  heart  swells  —  that  restless  heart 
Beating  forever  on  the  answering  shore  ! 
'Tis  smiling  in  the  golden  light  of  day, 
And  beaming  gently  from  the  starry  eyes 


102  THE    LOVE     OF    GOD. 

That  watch  at  night,  a  sinful,  shrouded  world  ; 
It  speaks  to  us  through  odorous  lips  of  flowers, 
And  warbles  from  the  singing  hearts  of  birds. 

0  that  all  human  hearts  might  join  the  strain ; 
Then  Hate,  and  Bigotry,  and  Sin  would  die  ; 
Then  Peace  would  reign  and  wear  its  olive 

crown, 
And  War  with  blood-stained   feet   no   longer 

track 

Earth's  fair  domain,  or  wave  its  crimson  flag. 
Then  Pride  would  lay  its  flaunting  mantle  by  ; 
The  cry  of  Hunger  cease  —  the  oppressor's  rod 
Would  scourge  no  more,  but  man  be  linked  to 

man 
In  one  unbroken  chain  of  brotherhood. 

0  ye  whose  bleeding  feet  have  weary  grown 
In  these  rough  ways  of  ours  —  whose  brows 
are  pierced 


THE    LOVE    OP    GOD.  103 

By  the  sharp  griefs  of  life  —  whose  lone  hearts 

yearn 

For  human  love,  and  yearn,  alas  !  in  vain,— 
Though  time  and  death  have  broken  one  by  one 
The  few,  frail  reeds  on  which  ye  leaned  so  long 
And  trustingly,  and  left  no  earthly  stay, 
Good  cheer !  there  comes  at  last  untroubled 

rest; 

The  crowns  are  thornless  that  the  angels  weave, 
And  God's  love  is  eternal.  J 


A    MEMORIAL. 

THY  harp  of  life  hath  lost  its  sweetest  tone, 
Thy  fairest  flower  hath  faded  at  a  breath, 

And  o'er  the  sunlight  of  thy  path  is  thrown 
A  chilling  shadow  from  the  Land  of  Death. 

Yes !   though  the  sweet  and  gentle  voice  of 

Spring, 
Called  thy  loved  child  to  sport  among  her 

flowers, 

He  knew  that  soaring  on  the  spirit's  wing, 
His    sinless    soul    might    reach    immortal 
bowers. 

Arid  so  he  rose  a  seraph  from  the  earth, 

White-winged  and  glorious  ;  free  from  suf- 
fering here  ; 


A    MEMORIAL.  105 

He  did  not  die  —  he  changed  his  mortal  birth 
For  one  diviner,  in  some  radiant  sphere ; 

Where  we  shall  yet  behold  him  face  to  face, 
Where   tones,   and  looks,  and  smiles,  that 
charmed  of  old, 

Shall  live  again,  and  in  one  long  embrace 
Our  loving  arms  his  angel  form  enfold. 

0,  as  ye  near  that  dim  and  shadowy  shore, 
Where  break  so  many  life-waves  day  by  day, 

0,  shrink  not,  fear  not  —  one  hath  gone  before, 
With  angel  footsteps  to  illume  the  way. 


THE    PHANTOM. 

THERE  dwelleth  a  Phantom  within  my  breast, 
That  lieth  not  down  with  me  to  rest, 
But  whether  I  wake  or  whether  I  sleep, 
Whispereth  ever,  cairn  and  deep, 
Like  the  mystical  music  that  breathes  and  swells 
Through  the  pearly  lips  of  the  ocean  shells. 
'Tis  a  ghost  from  the  kingdom  of  Long  Ago  ; 
'Tis  the  voice  of  Memory  that  haunteth  me  so. 

0,  many  and  strange  the  songs  it  sings ! 

But  their  burden  is  ever  of  vanished  things  ; 

And  whatsoever  the  strain  may  be 

Of  the  voice  that  dwells  and  speaks  in  me, 

The  listening  ear  of  my  spirit  hears  ; 

And  I  thrill  with  rapture  or  bend  in  tears 

At  the  varied  tones  that  ever  flow 

From  the  lips  of  the  Phantom  of  Long  Ago. 

(106) 


AN    AUTUMN    THOUGHT. 

THEY'RE  speeding  on —  the  weary  winter  hours ; 

These  are  thy  emblems,  thou  departing  year  : 
The  falling  leaves,  the  fading  of  the  flowers 

Laid  by  fond  Autumn  on  the  Summer's  bier. 

Soon  will  the  song  of  lingering  birds  be  still, 
The  streamlets  lose  the  music  of  their  tone  ; 

For  hid  with  pallid  brow  behind  the  hill, 
Stern  Winter  waits  to  mount  his  glittering 
throne. 

Well,  let  the  flowers  decay,  the  dead  leaves 

fall; 

Hushed  be  the  birds,  and  stilled  the  stream- 
let's flow ; 

(107) 


108  AN    AUTUMN    THOUGHT. 

Let  hoary  Winter  cast  a  blight  o'er  all, 

And  bind  his  withered  brow  with  wreaths  of 
snow. 

We  know  that  May  will  come,  and  glad  rills 


And  flowers   along   their   emerald  borders 

bloom  ; 

Though  our  next  spring-time  may  lie  far  away 
In  some  fair  clime  of  light  beyond  the  tomb. 


THE    SUNBEAM. 

A  SUNBEAM  through  an  open  door 

Streamed  down  the  death-o'ershadowed  aisle, 
And  lighted  all  our  solemn  gloom 

With  radiance  like  an  angel's  smile. 

It  crept  to  where,  within  her  shroud, 

A  sainted  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
And  gazed  upon  her  pallid  brow, 

And  slept  upon  her  pulseless  breast. 

With  golden  fingers,  light  and  warm, 

It  dallied  with  her  raven  hair ; 
It  kissed  her  faded  lip  and  cheek, 

As  if  the  flush  of  life  was  there. 


(109) 


110  THE    SUNBEAM. 

It  spread  above  her  pillowed  head 
The  glory  of  its  gilded  wing, 

And  whispered  to  her  as  it  fled, 
"  I'll  come  to  thee  again  in  Spring. 

"  When  thou  art  laid  within  the  earth, 
By  all  save  loving  hearts  forgot, 

I'll  strew  thy  grave  with  violets  fair, 
And  woo  the  wild-bird  near  the  spot. 

"  And  all  day  long  my  happy  smile 
Shall  cheer  thy  lone  and  peaceful  bed ; 

I'll  be  for  thee  a  shining  link 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead." 


TO    A    BIGOT. 

You  strove  in  vain,  with  cunning  words, 

And  subtle  arguments,  to  gain 
A  convert  to  your  darling  creed  ; 

Then  mocked  me  with  your  cold  disdain. 

Ah,  well —  sip  from  your  shallow  fount ; 

The  heart  hath  depths  you  may  not  know ; 
And  your  philosophy  would  fail, 

Did  you  but  judge  of  Nature  so. 

You  do  not  hate  the  mountain  stream 
Because  it  floweth  wild  and  free 

In  hidden  channels  of  its  own, 
And  finds  at  last  its  home,  the  sea. 


(in) 


112  TO    A    BIGOT. 


You  do  not  crush  the  wayside  flower 
Because  it  wears  a  different  hue 

From  that  which  decks  your  garden-walks, 
And  only  breathes  its  sweets  for  you. 

You  do  not  wound  the  forest  bird 
Because  your  caged  canary  sings 

A  sweeter  song  —  you  vainly  think 
Give  me  the  freedom  of  my  wings. 

Then  if  I  soar  beyond  your  flights, 

Or  if  I  keep  my  lowly  nest, 
What  matter,  since  I  am  content 

To  serve  my  God  as  seemeth  best  ? 


HYMN. 

THE  homeless  winds  that  wander  o'er  the  land  ; 
The  deep-voiced  thunder  speaking  words  of 

fire ; 

The  waves  that  break  in  sunshine  on  the  strand. 
Or  smite  with  storm-paled  hands  their  rocky 
lyre ; 

The  stars  that  blossom  in  the  fields  of  night ; 

The  buds  that  burst  in  beauty  from  the  sod ; 
The  birds  that  dip  their  wings  in  rainbow 
light,  - 

Are  notes  in  Nature's  symphony  to  God ! 

But  as  Creation's  anthem  onward  rolls, 

From  age  to  age,  in  grandeur  still  the  same, 


1U  HYMN. 


We  set  the  seal  of  Silence  on  our  souls, 
And  sing  no  praises  to  His  holy  name. 

Our  eyes  are  dazzled  by  the  glare  of  Life  ; 

We  cannot  see  the  sapphire  deeps  above  ; 
Our  ears  are  deafened  by  its  ceaseless  strife ; 

We  cannot  hear  the  angels'  songs  of  love. 

Dust  gathers  on  our  mantles  hour  by  hour  ; 

We  trail  our  robes  in  low  and  sensual  things  ; 
We  yield  our  heart-wealth  to  the  Tempter's 
power, 

And  stain  the  whiteness  of  the  spirit's  wings. 

We  fling  the  priceless  pearl  of  Faith  away, 
And   count   as  treasure   Earth's   corroding 
dross  ; 

We  bow  to  idols  formed  of  fragile  clay, 

But  twine  few  garlands  for  the  Savior's  cross. 


GONE. 

GONE  ere  the  daisies  flushed  upon  the  lea, 

Or  star-flowers  twinkled  in  the  shrouded  wood  ; 

She  prayed  to  live  till  then.    God's  will  be  done. 

0,  gently,  gently  fold  her  hands  in  rest, 

And  o'er  her  pulseless   breast  strew  freshest 

flowers  — 

The  mignonette  and  snow-drop,  lilies  pure, 
The  amaranth,  and  every  fadeless  bud  — 
Fit  types  of  her  who  passed  so  soon  to  God, 
And  of  that  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 
And  love  is  crowned  immortal. 


(115) 


THE    TWO    WORLDS. 

THIS  world  is  bright  and  fair,  we  know ; 

The  skies  are  arched  in  glory  ; 
The  stars  shine  on,  the  sweet  flowers  blow, 

And  tell  their  blessed  story. 

But  softer  than  the  Summer's  breath, 

And  fairer  than  its  roses, 
Will  be  the  clime  afar,  when  Death 

The  pearly  gate  uncloses  ; 

The  land  where  broken  ties  shall  twine, 
And  fond  hearts  will  not  sever  — 

Where  Love's  pure  light  shall  brighter  shine 
Forever  and  forever ! 


(116) 


TEARS. 

TO-DAY  I  scanned  each  face  I  met 

Within  the  quiet  city  ; 
None  with  the  dews  of  grief  were  wet, 

None  with  the  tears  of  pity. 

Is  there  no  anguish  in  the  world  ? 

Is  passion  calmly  sleeping  ? 
Is  Misery's  tattered  banner  furled, 

That  not  an  eye  is  weeping  ? 

Alas  !  I  knew  that  every  breast, 

In  hovel  or  in  palace, 
Must  bear  the  weight  of  Life's  unrest, 

And  drink  from  Sorrow's  chalice. 


(117) 


118  TEARS. 


But  when  I  thought  that  CHRIST  had  wept, 

The  sinless  One,  the  lowly, 
I  felt  that  tears  of  earth  were  kept 

For  prayer,  they  are  so  holy. 

0  weary  ones  !  the  Father  hears 

Each  stricken  spirit  calling ; 
His  eye  beholds  your  silent  tears, 

Though  in  the  darkness  falling ; 

And  wheresoe'er  your  lot  is  cast, 

In  crowds  or  lonely  places, 
Remember  that  his  hand  at  last 

Shall  wipe  them  from  all  faces. 


DEDICATION   HYMN. 

0  FATHER,  as  in  days  of  old, 

When  men  knew  not  thy  wondrous  lore, 
And  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  and  gold, 

Thou  rulest  on  thy  throne  above  ; 
Thou  art  the  same  unchanging  Friend, 
And  thy  almighty  arms  defend. 

Thy  hand  still  guides  each  rolling  world, 
And  stays  the  tempest's  awful  wrath, 

And  on  the  bannered  clouds  unfurled, 
Marks  out  the  lightning's  lurid  path  ; 

It  weighs  the  mountains,  holds  the  sea, 

And  stretches  through  Infinity. 

Ah,  little  human  hands  can  do 

When  measured  by  the  matchless  power 


(119) 


120  DEDICATION     HYMN. 

That  raised  the  hills,  and  arched  the  blue 
Wide  heavens  that  bless  us  every  hour  ; 
That  made  our  frames,  sustains  our  lives, 
And  through  all  earthly  change  survives. 

Yet,  Lord,  we  offer  to  thee  now 

This  temple  built  on  hallowed  ground ; 

0,  bless  its  walls !  for  while  we  bow, 
The  sainted  dead  seem  lingering  round, 

As  if  with  us  they  hither  came, 

To  own  this  tribute  to  thy  name. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  RUTH  BLAY. 


An  old  lady,  who  was  present  at  the  execution  of  Ruth  Blay, 
said,  as  Ruth  was  carried  through  the  streets,  her  shrieks 
filled  the  air.  She  was  dressed  in  silk,  and  was  driven  under 
the  gallows  in  a  cart.  Public  sympathy  was  awakened  for  her, 
and  her  friends  had  procured  from  the  governor  a  reprieve, 
which  would  have  soon  resulted  in  her  pardon ;  for  circum- 
stances afterwards  showed  that  her  concealed  child  was  proba- 
bly still-born,  and  she  was  no  murderess.  The  hour  for  her 
execution  arrived,  and  the  sheriff,  not  wishing,  it  is  said,  to  be 
late  to  his  dinner,  ordered  the  cart  to  be  driven  away,  and  the 
unfortunate  woman  was  left  hanging  from  the  gallows,  a  sacri- 
fice to  misguided  judgment.  If  we  are  rightly  informed,  she 
was  a  girl  of  good  education  for  her  day,  having  been  a  school- 
mistress. The  indignation  of  the  populace  can  hardly  be  con- 
ceived when  it  was  ascertained  that  a  reprieve  from  the  gov- 
ernor came  a  few  minutes  after  her  spirit  had  been  hastened 
away.  They  gathered  that  evening  around  the  residence  of 
Sheriff  Packer,  and  an  effigy  was  there  erected,  bearing  this  in- 
scription :  — 

Am  I  to  lose  my  dinner 

This  woman  for  to  hang? 

Come,  draw  nway  the  cart,  my  boys  ; 

Don't  stop  to  say  amen. 

—  Rambles  About  Portsmouth. 


(121) 


122    THE  BALLAD  OF  RUTH  BLAY. 

IN  the  worn  and  dusty  annals 
Of  our  old  and  quiet  town, 

With  its  streets  of  leafy  beauty, 

And  its  houses  quaint  and  brown,— 

With  its  dear  associations, 

Hallowed  by  the  touch  of  Time,  — 
You  may  read  this  thrilling  legend, 

This  sad  tale  of  wrong  and  crime. 

In  the  drear  month  of  December, 

Ninety  years  ago  to-day, 
Hundreds  of  the  village  people 

Saw  the  hanging  of  Ruth  Blay  ; — 

Saw  her,  clothed  in  silk  and  satin, 
Borne  beneath  the  gallows-tree, 

Dressed  as  in  her  wedding  garments, 
Soon  the  bride  of  Death  to  be  ;  — 


THE  BALLAD  OF  KUTH  BLAY.     123 

Saw  her  tears  of  shame  and  anguish, 
Heard  her  shrieks  of  wild  despair 

Echo  through  the  neighboring  woodlands, 
Thrill  the  clear  and  frosty  air  ;  — 

Till  their  hearts  were  moved  to  pity 

At  her  fear  and  agony  : 
"  Doomed  to  die,"  they  said,  "  unjustly, 

Weak,  but  innocent  is  she." 

When  at  last,  in  tones  of  warning, 
From  its  high  and  airy  tower, 

Slowly,  with  its  tongue  of  iron, 
Tolled  the  bell  the  fatal  hour. 

Like  the  sound  of  distant  billows, 
When  the  storm  is  wild  and  loud, 

Breaking  on  the  rocky  headlands, 
Ran  a  murmur  through  the  crowd. 


124     THE  BALLAD  OF  RUTH  BLAY. 

And  a  voice  among  them  shouted, 
"  Pause  before  the  deed  is  done  ; 

We  have  asked  reprieve  and  pardon 
For  the  poor,  misguided  one." 

But  these  words  of  Sheriff  Packer 
Rang  above  the  swelling  noise  : 

"  Must  I  wait  and  lose  my  dinner  ? 
Draw  away  the  cart,  my  boys  ! ' 

Fold  thy  hands  in  prayer,  0  woman ! 

Take  thy  last  look  of  the  sea ; 
Take  thy  last  look  of  the  landscape ; 

God  be  merciful  to  thee  ! 

Stifled  groans,  a  gasp,  a  shudder, 
And  the  guilty  deed  was  done  ; 

On  a  scene  of  cruel  murder 
Coldly  looked  the  Winter  sun. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  RUTH  BLAY.     125 

Then  the  people,  pale  with  horror, 
Looked  with  sudden  awe  behind, 

As  a  field  of  grain  in  Autumn 
Turns  before  a  passing  wind  ; 

For  distinctly  in  the  distance, 
In  the  long  and  frozen  street, 

They  could  hear  the  ringing  echoes 
Of  a  horse's  sounding  feet. 

Nearer  came  the  sound  and  louder, 
Till  a  steed  with  panting  breath, 

From  its  sides  the  white  foam  dripping, 
Halted  at  the  scene  of  death  ; 

And  a  messenger  alighted, 

Crying  to  the  crowd,  "  Make  way ! 

This  I  bear  to  Sheriff  Packer  ; 
'Tis  a  pardon  for  Ruth  Blay  ! ' 


126    THE  BALLAD  OF  RUTH  BLAY. 

But  they  answered  not  nor  heeded, 
For  the  last  fond  hope  had  fled  ; 

In  their  deep  and  speechless  sorrow, 
Pointing  only  to  the  dead. 

And  that  night,  with  burning  bosoms, 
Muttering  curses  fierce  and  loud, 

At  the  house  of  Sheriff  Packer 
Gathered  the  indignant  crowd,  — 

Shouting,  as  upon  a  gallows 

A  grim  effigy  they  bore, 
"  Be  the  name  of  Thomas  Packer 

A  reproach  forevermore  !  " 


SONG    OF    THE    SKATERS. 

THOUGH  winter  winds  are  whistling  loud, 

And  skies  look  cold  and  gray, 
Though  earth  lies  mute  beneath  her  shroud, 
The  skaters  !  what  care  they  ? 
A  happy  throng, 
With  mirth  and  song, 
O'er  fields  of  ice  we  swiftly  glide, 
As  sea-birds  sail  above  the  tide. 

0,  well  we  know  the  winter  hours 

Fly  faster  as  we  sing  — 
That  sooner  come  the  birds  and  flowers 
And  loveliness  of  Spring  ; 
So,  night  or  day, 
Away !  away ! 

(127) 


128  SONG    OF    THE    SKATERS. 

O'er  crystal  plains,  with  mirth  and  song, 
We  speed,  we  speed  like  the  wind  along ! 

The  heated  room,  the  crowded  hall, 

Where  pride  and  fashion  meet, 
While  waves  of  music  rise  and  fall 
In  time  to  dancing  feet  — 
We  seek  not  these  ; 
Give  us  the  breeze, 

And  the  gleaming  floor  o'er  which  we  go 
Like  arrows  shot  from  the  hunter's  bow. 

Then  loud  the  stormy  winds  may  blow, 

And  skies  look  cold  and  gray ; 
Then  earth  may  wear  her  robe  of  snow  — 
We'll  laugh  the  hours  away  ! 
With  mirth  and  song, 
A  merry  throng, 

O'er  fields  of  ice  we'll  swiftly  glide, 
As  sea-birds  sail  above  the  tide. 


OCTOBER. 

OCTOBER,  ruddy-cheeked,  comes  o'er  the  plains, 
And  as  with  rustling  step  it  speeds  along, 
Its  feet  beat  music  to  the  harvest  song, 
Far  echoing  loud  and  clear,  as  loaded  wains 
Bear  on  the  golden  grain  'neath  sheltering 

eaves. 
The  woodlands  now  are  tinged  with  gorgeous 

dyes, 

And  seem  to  borrow  from  the  sunset  skies 
Their  varied  tints :  but  soon,  too  soon,  the 

leaves 

Will  fall  like  tears  above  the  Summer's  grave, 
The  lingering  birds  will  sing  their  parting 

lay, 

And  o'er  this  brightness  withering  to  decay, 

9  (129) 


130  OCTOBER. 


The  chill  November  blast  will  beat  and  rave. 
0,  fading  glories  of  the  Autumn  hour, 
How  like  ye  are  to  man's  vain  pride  and 
power ! 


SONNET. 

NIGHT  and  its  dews  come  silently  to  earth, 
Like  kindred  mourners  to  the  grave  of  Day  ; 
The  stars  look  on  with  pale  and  trembling  ray, 
As  if  through  tears  to  watch  them  on  their 
way. 

0,  holy  Night,  what  thoughts  awake  to  birth, 
That  slumber  in  the  day,  amid  its  din, 
And  restless  strife  for  gain,  its  glare  and  sin  ! 
But  Night,  care-soothing  Night,  0,  I  would 
win 

Thy  Crown  of  Peace,  and  wear  it  on  my  brow  ; 
Here  at  thy  starry  throne  I  bend  my  knee, 
All  weak  and  humbled.     I  look  up  to  thee, 

And  bless  thee  for  the  joy  thou  giv'st  me  now — 
A  joy  so  hushed  and  deep,  I  tremble,  lest 
Dream-like,  it  fade  away  within  my  breast. 

(131) 


SONNET 

ON   THE  DEATH   OF   A   CHILD. 

BEFORE  me,  in  the  cold,  white  arms  of  Death, 
He  lies  in  dreamless  slumber  ;  on  his  breast 
His  hands  are  folded  peacefully  in  rest, 

And   through   his   pale   lips   steals  no  gentle 

breath ; 
Unearthly  beauty  dwells  upon  his  brow, 

And  lovelier  seem  his  closed  eyes  the  while, 

Than  when  they  kindled  at  a  mother's  smile. 
0  beauteous  child,  Death  is  thy  mother  now, 

And   she   hath  charmed   thee   to    a   halcyon 

sleep, 

And  waits  to  lay  thee  in  thy  little  bed 
Among  the  flowers  ;  above  the  sinless  dead 

My  tears  are  falling,  yet  I  only  weep 

(132) 


SONNET.  133 


To  think  that  when  to  thee,  0  Death,  my  soul 

is  given, 
It  will  not  soar  on  such  a  stainless  wing  to 

Heaven. 


SONNET. 

TO    J.    G.    W. 

tf 

THE  world  is  wanting  in  great  souls  like  thine, 
For  thou  art  one,  who,  scorning  hate  and 

blame, 

Dost  dare  to  battle  in  dear  Freedom's  name, 
As  if  thy  heart  was  mailed  with  power  divine. 

Thou  art  a  hater  of  all  human  wrong, 
And   thy   barbed    thoughts   at    Tyranny   are 

hurled. 
Thou  break'st  the  silence  of  the  slumbering 

world, 
With  sounding  notes  of  deep  and  burning 


song, 


Unnerving  arms  that  wield  Oppression's  rod  ; 
Or  with  the  music  of  some  gentler  strain, 


(134) 


SONNET.  135 


Thou  steal' st  from  life  its  weariness  and  pain. 
0  Poet !  thou  hast  gained  the  smile  of  God, 
And  won  on  earth  a  high  and  star-like  name, 
To  shine  forever  in  the  sky  of  Fame. 


THE    END, 


i  M-  i  u  r 


M191925 


THE 


Liars' 
P 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


i  11 1 


! 


